Life is a Game
by Rachel Mantegna
Summary: Life is a game. You either play or get played. So we both kept playing our own little game and that's why we couldn't make it work.


**A/N Wow! Hi there fandom, it's been a while, hasn't it? So… what's up? Okay, I'm horrible at these. Anyways, I'm in my last year of high school, how crazy is that? I wrote my first Lord of the Flies fanfic when I was in grade nine, wow. I've been here awhile. Anyways, life is crazy, blah blah blah but here I am. I feel like I owe you guys something. For some reason my 200 word one-shot Befriending the Ground I getting a ton of reviews again? So to those of you who are either going really far back in the archive, going through my profile or just somehow stumbling upon it, thank you! To really show you how much I love you, here's some really mentally unstable, confused Ralph that I wrote quite some time ago but never posted.**

**Disclaimer: I am not William Golding no matter how many people I tell I'm him reincarnated. **

Life is a game. You either play or get played. So we both kept playing our own little game and that's why we couldn't make it work. We were both at fault. At least that's what his nervous lips told me when we boarded the ship.

Sure, that's why. It wasn't because the flaming haired Chief was power hungry. It wasn't because he had a pet psychopath to do his bidding. It wasn't because he turned a group of kids into blood-thirsty savages. No, it was _our_ fault. And _our_ meant partially mine. Me, when all I did was try to keep us together, try to get us rescued. Me, who was chosen to lead right from the get-go and put in charge of thirty-something kids. Me. Me, me, me.

He was wrong. He was trying to take some of the blame off himself, make sure he and his sidekick wouldn't be the only ones in trouble. It was him, it was all him. I didn't do anything wrong.

Except help kill Simon. And not protect Piggy. Or the twins. Or let Jack go and make his own tribe. Hell, I shouldn't have even let him go hunting that first time.

It was all my fault.

I leaned over the railing of the Navy ship and emptied the contents of my stomach into the dark blue sea beneath. It was a mixture of eating proper food for the first time since we crashed, seasickness and disgust at myself all at once that made me feel sick. I felt so sick. I felt sick for letting everything that happened on the god forsaken island happen. I was in charge. God, it was my fault.

I lifted my head and looked around. I was alone. So alone. At the start I had been with Piggy, but now he was gone. Smashed. Crushed. Dead. Dead because of me. Not only did I have no one, but I was completely alone on the deck. Alone just like I had been in the end. Which I wanted to believe so bad was all because of Jack, but I knew was my fault.

As I stood out in the bitter cold, crying, sobbing, falling to pieces, I just knew Jack was in his room right now, probably sitting cross-legged on his bed playing cards with Roger. I bet they were laughing about all the good fun they had, wearing Piggy's glasses mockingly. I wondered if either of them knew the type of persecution they would face, if they knew they would be in jail in a matter of days. I sure knew I would. The government wouldn't let us get away with two counts of murder, no way.

And I was just as bad as them. The three of us, the oldest boys from the island. At least the only ones left alive. The three of us would end up in some rotting cell together. They would share a bunk bed, exiling me to be alone at night. During the day, I was sure they would taunt me to no end. Kick me, punch me, torture me, hell, even kill me. The difference was, I couldn't run away this time.

My head crashed down onto the railing. My forehead smashed into the wood, stinging slightly as tears hit my bare feet. Sobs wracked my entire body, causing chills down my spine and shivers across limbs.

I hated this. I hated this whole situation. I hated Jack and I hated Roger and I hated the thought of going home and the disappointment in my mother's eyes and I hated my theories of how cold handcuffs would feel against my fair skin and I hated the thought of rotting away in jail when I had already tried so hard to escape an enclosed prison-like island. I hated my life.

A now thirteen year old boy and I already hated my life. However, I felt much, much older than that.

I felt as if I'd been reaping this earth far longer than my time had called for. I felt as if I should've been dead. There was nothing left for me.

I looked at the ocean below once again. It was far below, but the salty scent still wafted into my nose. I would never forget that smell. I would never forget the scene from the island either. Nor would I forget the taste on my lips, or the feeling of clothes stiff from salt. I would never forget the sound of the waves crashing on the shore of the beach. I would never forget. So why bother?

"Why bother?" I whispered to myself. Why? When there was nothing left to live for, just why?

I liked my lips, pursing them together. Would it hurt? Would it be quick and swift? Would it be better than having my head impaled on a spear?

Would I be dead before I hit the ocean floor?

Wiping another tear back, I knew I had already made up my mind. I couldn't stand a trial, hell, I couldn't stand to see Jack's ugly face one more time. I was done. I was done being here, I was done with these boys, I was done being alive. I was done with the pain.

I hoisted myself up onto the banister, thinking my last thoughts.

_See you soon, Simon. See you soon, Piggy._

Taking a sharp breath inwards, my mouth filled with the salty air.

_I'm ready._

I pushed myself forward and braced myself for the cold but welcoming arms of the far too well known ocean.

**A/N So um, don't forget to review.**


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